The Poison Throne (41 page)

Wynter pressed her cheek into the cushions at that thought and bit her lip against a prickle of unwanted fear for him.

Christopher, still blissfully unaware of her scrutiny, took a napkin from his pocket and unfolded it on the hearth to reveal one of last night’s cakes. He knelt motionless for a moment, regarding it. The firelight played across his silently moving lips. Then he carefully broke it into four, and, quickly, as if aware of the rapidly passing time, ate a portion, threw a portion in the fire, put a portion in his pocket, and with the final portion in his hand, stood and crossed to the bed where Lorcan slept soundly on.

Witchcraft
, thought Wynter with a pang of fear, and immediately berated herself.
You’ve spent far too long up North, Wynter Moorehawke. Their intolerance has poisoned you
.

As Wynter watched, Christopher kissed the remaining piece of cake and carefully placed it against Lorcan’s lips. He did this so gently that Lorcan didn’t even flinch. Then Christopher slipped the offering under Lorcan’s pillow and stood, his face lost in shadows, looking down on the big man.

Wynter found this unbearably moving and she rolled over purposely so that Christopher would know she was awake. He turned his head to look at her and his face was instantly transformed. There was his tomcat smile, there were those sly dimples. His eyes came alive.

“How do, girly,” he whispered. “Did I wake you?”

She shook her head with a smile. “Were you praying, Christopher?”

He looked shocked for a moment, then smiled again, looking down at Lorcan with sad fondness. “I suppose so…” He chuffed a little laugh, “It’s been a long time since I did ritual… but it felt like the right thing to do.”

“Christopher is an odd name for a pagan,” she observed softly

He looked over sharply at the word pagan, but softened almost immediately and grinned. “It were my mother that named me. I doubt the word meant anything to her but a sound.” He looked down at Lorcan again, and murmured absently. “Though I suppose she might have been a Christian, who can know?”

He brushed a strand of hair from Lorcan’s face and turned back to the fire. It was so strange to hear his normally soft footsteps, now loud and rapping in his hard-soled boots. He hunkered down by the fire and poured two cups of tea, strong and pitch black, the way the Turks drank it. “Here,” he whispered and handed her a glass.

They drank in silent companionship, the fire a soft crackling undercurrent to their silence. Wynter found it hard to be sad; it did not seem real that Christopher was leaving. It just felt normal to be sitting here, in this easy quiet, her feet tucked under her, the blankets pooled in her lap. Christopher sat on the hearthstone, his legs stretched out in front of him, his ankles crossed. She examined his profile as he watched her father sleep. He held his tea glass under his chin between sips, inhaling the lemon scented steam, his expression unreadable.

“Wynter…” he whispered suddenly.

“Yes?”

He looked at her, his face dark against the fire, his eyes gleaming. “I am glad that you will be with your father when it is his time to die.”

This was such a bald statement, so utterly without polish or evasion that Wynter’s throat closed over for a moment. She did not know what to say to him and found herself staring, her eyes huge, as he continued.

“Not so much… well, of course, yes, it is so much the better for Lorcan that you will be there. And for that I am also grateful, because I have come to love him very much. But…” he seemed to consider something a moment, then he put his glass down on the hearth beside him and turned to look at her again, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. “Wynter. My father and I were taken by the slavers in a little village on the Hollish border. Our troupe had been invited there to play a wedding. We were meant to stay a week, but it was all a ruse. When we got there, the village had been invaded by the Loups-Garous; they had come for their sevenths…” he paused, looked at her uncertainly, “You… you understand about the sevenths?”

Wynter nodded, her mouth dry. She knew all about the custom of the sevenths. Dear God. The Loups-Garous. That vicious, uncontrollable tribe of nomadic creatures. The bane of the Northlands wilderness. They would converge on a village, take it over for five days, help themselves to the food, the shelter… the women. Seven years later they would return for their choice of the strongest and hardiest of the children produced by their unions. Woe betide a people who didn’t hand over their sevenths. It was a system that had been in effect for generations. Some villages had even come to regard it as an honour and welcomed the Wolves with banquets and the free choice of their daughters. Wynter shivered. “But Christopher,” she whispered. “I did not know that the Wolves dealt in slaves.”

The shining reflection of Christopher’s eyes met hers, and his voice was dark with meaning when he said, “There are so many things people don’t know about them… For one thing, folk think that all the sevenths grow up to be Loups-Garous, but that ain’t the way; most of the sevenths actually end up sold as slaves. He glanced at Lorcan, then back to Wynter, keeping his voice low. “The village had no sevenths to give them, there had been an outbreak of the smallpox and all the wee uns had succumbed.” Christopher tilted his head and spread his hands. “So the village offered us instead. There was no wedding, there never had been, we were their
gift
to the Wolves. The magnificent Garron Troupe, famed in all of Hadra for our skill in music and song.”

“Oh Christopher… I’m… that’s just so…”

He shrugged and waved his hand, as if to say
no matter
. He glanced at Lorcan again. “There were six of us in the troupe. All very talented. Most of us…” he paused. “Most of us… pretty. They knew as soon as they looked at us, as soon as they looked at the girls… they knew they’d get a good reward. So they took the deal.”

The cold that had been planted in Wynter’s chest at the mention of the Loups-Garous spread to her belly. She tried not to imagine the depths of meaning behind Christopher’s spare words. “Wh… what age were you, Christopher?”

“I was thirteen, or was I fourteen already…? I’m not certain. You know…” he looked up at her, frowning as if it was still a puzzlement to him, “… before all that happened, I had such a great life. I was the luckiest lad in the world, everything was such
fun
…”

He sat staring a moment, then shook himself and continued quietly.

“It’s a long journey from Hollis to the Morrocos. It got on to winter. They had picked up a fair string of us along the way by then…
goods
they called us. Goods. Somewhere… I guess it was the Midlands somewhere… We were all roped together, crossing this moor. A long empty road across this moor. Naught for miles. Naught for
miles
… Just snow. Something happened to my father.” He made a motion over his stomach, pushing his hand into the pit of his belly and grimacing as if to indicate what had happened. Wynter winced and leant forward to take his hand, but he just squeezed her fingers, then gently separated from her, as if unable to continue while being comforted. His voice was strangely flat and emotionless, “He got a pain in his belly and couldn’t walk. After a while we couldn’t carry him anymore, because he was in too much agony.” He stopped completely for a moment, then jerked to a start again. “They unshackled him and left him by the side of the road in the snow. He was curled in a ball. He… was crying. I couldn’t help.”

“Oh, Christopher…” she reached for his hand again and he pulled back, inhaling deeply and holding his hand up, as if to silence her. He shook his head, looking away.

“Look…” he whispered, “Look, all I’m saying is. You’re lucky.” He looked her in the face then, pointedly catching her eye. She sat back on her heels, her stomach cold. He suspected. Christopher suspected that she was going to leave, and he was trying to tell her not to.

“You will
never
forgive yourself, lass,” he said, his gaze intense. “If you aren’t here. It’s not something you can get back. There’s no second chance. That’s all I’m saying. There’s no second chance.” He held her eyes for a moment, then nodded and patted her hand. “I must go,” he said softly.

Wynter sat, staring at nothing, her hands folded in her lap, too stunned and too numb to say or do anything.

Christopher rose to gather up his things. When he was ready, his jacket on, his saddle and his tack on one shoulder, his dressing case on a little trundle by the door, he stood and looked uncertainly down at her. He asked softly, “Are you angry with me, girly?”

She looked up at him in shock. He was standing in Lorcan’s doorway, ready to leave, his face miserable. All this time he’d been getting ready, she’d sat like a stone and now he thought she was…

She leapt to her feet and slipped past him into the retiring room. “I need to get my robe, Christopher. Wait for me.”

“Oh no,” he hissed in alarm. “You can’t, I’m going through the secret passages; you’ll never get back.”

She paused in the doorway. “I’ll scale the orange trees and climb through my window if I have to, Christopher Garron. You’re not going to the stables alone with no one to wave you farewell.”

She pulled on her robe and her soft indoor-boots and belted her dagger around her waist. When she hurried back into the retiring room, Christopher was standing just outside Lorcan’s door, gazing in at her father who still slept, oblivious as a baby, his face turned to the fire. Christopher had placed a glass of tea on his bedside table, and it steamed gently in the firelight.

“It’s the hope of things lasting that does us in, ain’t it?” Christopher said quietly, his eyes on Lorcan. “If only we could shake that stupid illusion, the belief that
this
time we’ll be able to stay. This time, things will last. Then we’d all be much happier.”

Wynter stayed very still for a moment, trying not let those words burrow into her heart and break her down completely. “Aren’t you going to say goodbye to him?” she asked.

“I don’t want to wake him.”

Wynter hesitated uncertainly. She wasn’t sure that it was the right thing to do, to just leave like that, but Christopher bent and shouldered his saddle, looping his tack across his arm. He took the trundle by its handle, ready to go. He glanced at her, waiting patiently for her to slide open the secret door.

She did and then stepped into the passageway, moving aside to let him get past her, since he would have to lead the way. He didn’t move, and she glanced up expectantly. He was still standing in Lorcan’s doorway, the light from the fire dancing in distorted shadows across his face. He was staring through her, as she stood in the darkness of the passageway and his eyes were miles away.

“Christopher…?” she whispered.

Suddenly Christopher dropped the saddle and tack to the floor and fled back into Lorcan’s room without a sound. Wynter rushed after him and came to halt in the doorway, tears springing to her eyes.

Christopher had fallen to his knees by Lorcan’s bed and was shaking the big man urgently by the shoulder, his face distraught. “Lorcan,” he whispered, “Lorcan. I’m going. Lorcan. I’m going now. Wake up.”

Lorcan gasped, and his green eyes snapped open, startled. “Whu…?” he said, staring without comprehension into Christopher’s face.

Christopher tried to say something. He grimaced, baring his teeth and curled in on himself slightly as if he had a pain in his chest. He grabbed at Lorcan’s hand and pulled it to him squeezing it to his lips. Big tears stood out in his eyes, shivering, but not falling. “I’m going…” he managed finally, staring into Lorcan’s face. “I’m going away…”

Lorcan blinked at him, still obviously confused and disorientated. He searched the young man’s face, as if seeking a clue to who he was. “Christopher…” he breathed.

“Aye. Aye…” Christopher had run out of words and he just kept holding on to Lorcan’s hand and looking into his face.

Lorcan seemed to have no idea what was happening, his green eyes never really cleared, and almost immediately they began to flutter closed again. Christopher watched him, his mouth quivering, as sleep took the big man under again. Gradually Lorcan’s breathing returned to the steady, innocent cadence of sleep.

Christopher made a desperate little sound, his eyes liquid, his body trembling. His hands were shaking as he clutched Lorcan’s hand to his chest. His eyes opened wide and the shivering tears overflowed abruptly in two shining trails down his face. He took a huge breath and held it. Wynter could see that he was in a fierce internal battle for self-control. She thought for a moment that he would fall on her father and shake him again, try to wake him properly so that they could say goodbye.

But Christopher just relaxed suddenly, and released his breath in a long shaky sigh, swallowing hard. His hands were trembling when he put Lorcan’s hand back down on the covers, but his face was set, and he was back in control of himself.

Christopher leant over and gently kissed Lorcan’s cheek. “I’m leaving,” he whispered. “I wanted you to know. God protect you, Lorcan Moorehawke, and watch over you, on your journey to the better place.”

Escape

C
hristopher seemed to know exactly where he was going. He moved confidently through the blackness, turning unerringly left and right. He led her up and down staircases, ducked through tiny archways, passed by echoing, chilly voids. Wynter could hear his hand trailing the walls, and he counted under his breath as each panel passed by under his fingers. At first, the trundle had made a terrifying amount of noise in the confined space, but Wynter had quickly picked her end off the ground and they carried it between them through the winding darkness.

Finally they came to the top of a flight of stone stairs, and Christopher pushed his way up and out of a trapdoor, which seemed to be set in open ground. Wynter followed him up the steps and found herself in the echoing space of the indoor horse arena.

Good God!
She thought, looking around her in the vague twilight,
We must have been underground for the best portion of that journey.